i'm the one who's wounded here
by emilyftch
Summary: She readily responds, as she blinks back blackness and avoids the picture of Naomi that swims into her vision. She'll take her touch and she'll take her voice, but her eyes will be what breaks her. — naomi/emily


i'm the one who's wounded here

_hold your head up, dear._  
_i'm the one who's wounded here._  
_but i love you still the same.__  
_

— you kill me, paper route

She feels as though she could be swallowed up by smoke.

The gray weaves its tendrils through her, soaks into her exposed skin like moisture from the air. Her eyes shake; red and black blurs zigzag across her vision as she stumbles through the dance floor. It's not even dancing anymore – it's just a jagged reflection of rhythm, wobbling back and forth as bodies bump against each other like pinball. It makes her flesh crawl to feel the sweaty, humid breath of nobodies against her neck, heated from the alcohol on their breaths.

"Naomi." She can't talk and she can't think, but the name slips through her lips like it's automatic. It's no longer a name, but a reflex, a word always on the tip of her tongue. But the name hurts – each syllable is a twist of the knife that's wedged in her chest, and the white-hot electricity of pain zaps through her at the sound. _Naomi. Naomi. Ow. Ow. Stop. Stop!_

"Naomi." The name rips the air from her lungs, and suddenly she cannot breathe. She's choking, spluttering through the tears that burn her raw cheeks, and the mascara pools at the corners of her mouth as her legs start running. She feels herself pushing people to the side, angrily, forcefully, no qualms about the destruction she may leave behind.

Her vision twists and wobbles until she can't see anything but black before her and she feels her way through the room desperately, smacking her hands against the wall in a panicked search for the door. Her fingers latch onto the doorknob when she finds it, but she can't find the strength to open the door, and so she falls to her knees, stains of runny eyeliner making tracks down her cheeks.

Her forehead finds the cool surface of the door, and she stays there like that, just barely out of the lion's den, but the music still pumps jumbled words in her ears and the stench of beer and sweat clings to her clothes. The tears don't stop, they flow heavy and hot, until gentle fingers slide under her arms and lift her up and a shaky voice whispers, "C'mon, Em, let's go home." She readily responds, as she blinks back blackness and avoids the picture of Naomi that swims into her vision. She'll take her touch and she'll take her voice, but her eyes will be what breaks her.

.

It's always cold in the house. The tentative way the two of them step around each other, with breaths sucked in tight and an icy layer of disquiet settling uncomfortably, turns Emily's whole body freezing. It's Naomi's eyes that feel the coldest – with their unforgiving, hard-edged blue that glows with all the words she cannot say. And all the words she does, the trivial ones like "it's time for college" or "it's raining today" – the sheer normality of them is what sends shivers up Emily's spine, electric shocks of anger because they're just pretending. But no matter how they like to play make-believe with their memories, the trust in Emily's heart has melted.

They don't kiss anymore, not even goodnight pecks. Emily's grown accustomed to them, and without them her forehead feels bare, but if Naomi kissed her anywhere for any reason at this point, she'd probably just cringe away. They don't have sex either, but they'll sleep in that same bed. The distance feels even farther when they're that close, because it forces Emily to remember how they'd keep their legs or their fingers interlocked, no matter how much harder that made it to sleep. And by morning, Emily would be practically on top of Naomi, arms and legs feeling like several more limbs on their own. But now there's that barrier, the strip of untouched mattress both of them know not to cross. And when they get ready for bed or get up in the morning, they don't talk. In the mornings Emily will pretend to still be asleep, and Naomi will get up to make tea.

Only there's one day, a Tuesday, Emily thinks, where Naomi sits up in bed and doesn't get up. Emily feels her body go still, fears what is coming if Naomi stays. Her eyes fix on the gray blotch on the wall near her side of the bed, waiting for the inevitable. Naomi clears her throat before she talks, and when she says "Ems," it's shaky. The catch in her throat sends a full-body tremor through Emily, like a fever attacking every inch of her. She swallows her whimper – doesn't reply.

"Ems, please." Naomi trembles with broken words, and her quivering chest is mere inches from Emily's naked back – Emily restrains a shudder. _Don't let her see you cry._

She keeps her mouth shut, and the next couple minutes move slowly, until Naomi removes herself, defeated.

But for Emily it is no victory.

.

Emily meets Mandy at a bar when she's by herself, drinking vodka to pass the time (it feels like a fucking cliché, but maybe they're clichés for a reason). Mandy's tall, caramel-skinned, and her breasts are popping out of the sequin dress tailored to squeeze everything just a little too tight. She is attractive, Emily can't ignore that.

Mandy gives her a onceover; Emily can feel the path her eyes take, running along her face and form, and despite its complimentary approach, it feels dirty.

"Sorry to stare," she begins, thick Indian accent bubbling against her tongue, "but I couldn't help but notice your hair. It's quite…fluorescent."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Emily lies. Her tone is weak.

Somehow the response is mistaken for an invitation, and Mandy leans against the bar counter, making sure her thighs are positioned so the dim yellow light casts a tasty-looking spotlight over them. It's inviting, but Emily doesn't have the gall to take that leap.

(A bitter knife twists in her stomach when she remembers Naomi did.)

Mandy offers to buy her a drink, and after three sidestepping ways of politely declining, Emily mentions she has a girlfriend (but what's the significance of that word anymore?). Mandy changes instantly, seemingly shrinking in size as the flirty settlement of her teeth transcends into an average quirk of lips.

"She's a very lucky girl." she finally quips, running her manicured fingernails through the dripping condensation on her glass.

"Sure," Emily mumbles, "yeah."

.

She starts hanging out with Mandy, for self-esteem purposes more than anything, but she _never_ fucks her.

But, she thinks about doing it. A lot. Not because she exudes some sort of sex appeal or anything like that, but because Emily knows how much it would hurt Naomi. She knows nothing would make Naomi feel more like shit than having that same drowning feeling Emily had to feel, the feeling of complete loss overtaking her.

And she knows Mandy knows. It's a vibrating tension between the two of them, and with each time they hang out, Emily can feel Mandy pushing and pushing - a touch on the thigh here, a bump in the shoulder there. It's subtle, but Emily recognizes all of it. It'd be easy, so easy - but she can't. She fucking hates the hold Naomi has over her, but she can't bring herself to exact revenge in such a way.

But she does it in so many other ways.

She's never slept with anyone else, but Naomi sees the flirtation Emily swaps with other girls, sees the unbearable sensuality Emily exudes for other girls. It's only once when she's drunk and god knows how high that she actually acts on anything, shoving her tongue down the first female throat she can grasp - and Naomi sees it. Naomi sees everything, because Emily is doing all of it just for her. And she can feel the painful bleeding in Naomi's heart every time, but her hands twist the knife harsher and harder because Emily is too blinded by rage to think with logic anymore.

.

She drinks every night. Not for fun anymore, though. For sanity.

.

"I love you, please, you have to know that." Naomi's eyes are glistening, and she's biting at her lip to keep her voice steady.

The bags under Emily's eyes are weighing heavy, and the alcohol on her breath is pungent. She grips a broken bottle in her fist like a weapon.

"I f-fucking hate you." Emily slurs. The world is spinning and her heart is numb. Her eyes are wet and her face is hot with fat wet tears that dribble down onto her collarbone, pooling in her chest bones. Everything in her sight is starting to blur into the color of blood; her teeth feel like they could snap bullets in two.

Through the haze of her mock-hate, she sees Naomi start to tremble. It is so small, so hardly noticeable; Naomi is the strong one of their relationship. Her shell is hard to crack, and Emily seems to be the only one capable of breaking it. Now Naomi stands with her fists clenched and her jaw the same, willing every bit of herself to be strong, because admit or not, Emily is not ready to catch her anymore.

"Emily…" The name is a serrated whisper, a cruel taunt if anything. Emily feels heat pricking at the corner of her eyes, as her hand holding the bottle goes limp and drops it. It crashes to the floor in slow-motion, shattering upon impact; tiny shards of brown glass go everywhere, and Emily can see her blurry reflection in them. It's poetic, or something.

The impact of bottle to ground causes Naomi to jump. With her guard down, Emily catches one of those tears Naomi tried so hard to keep in, fall out and down her cheek. It crawls slowly down to the tip of her lip. Her lip, it quivers.

"I feel sick looking at you," Emily spits with venom, the kind of venom she can only produce when she's this drunk and this angry (which lately has been often). The heat of her fury burning low in the back of her throat, she turns on her heel and runs up the stairs. This is how she has learned to deal with every curve her heart throws at her - by running away.

.

Emily goes back to the same roof, above the club, with a couple of bottles and a pack of cigarettes. She sits herself on the very edge, loose legs dangling in the air. She takes sigs of drink, washes them down with smoke and ashes. Her eyes observe the ground below her, analyzing everything. The people below, they all look the size of fingernails, and Emily takes her finger and thumb to see just how small their heads look from up above. She crushes her fingers together, over and over, but no matter what, the people keep walking. Keep living. Emily's attempts to squeeze them like ants affects no one but her.

She knows how easy it would be to press her hands against the rough concrete, and push herself off into oblivion. It isn't like she's never thought about it (because she's though about it a lot; not in the sense that she would do it, just in the sense that it's certainly an option). She knows it would be the ultimate way to get back at Naomi, to take away something so precious just like Naomi did with her.

But it's the mere fact that she knows losing her would kill Naomi herself is what keeps her from doing it. To admit it makes her entire body ill, but Naomi loves her more anything, and Emily her. Which is why she can't leave her, even if she needs to.

(She tastes her mascara before she realizes she's crying.)

.

Her dad's words throb in her mind over and over, and over. For a moment, she starts to believe them.

But her dad's always been the biggest liar she knows.


End file.
